LABOR: The Mind of Mr. Lewis

The big man strides ponderously up & down the
big, dark-paneled office, his wide feet sinking heavily in the taupe
broadloom carpet. John Llewellyn Lewis is thinking. Now his pale thick
hands are clasped behind him; now they jam in great fists in his coat
pockets. Deep in his heavy chops he grips a cigar the size of an auto's
gearshift, and like a gearshift the cigar slides slickly from point to
point along the wide mouth. A mountain in a white suit, rumpled, tired,
his whitening bale of hair shaking as he...